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then, having only tasted each expensive
delicacy, leaving the rest to waste as his
bodyguards stoically surrounded him,
McDonald moved on to the main course,
imam bayildi (literally “The imam
swooned” because it was so good). Turkey
stuffed with currants and pine kernels,
bulbul yuvasi, helva, rahat lokum, all
came in wave after overwhelming wave of
epicurean delight.
I couldn’t finish my own small meal.
The smell of the meat wafting from
McDonald’s table reminded me of the
burn ward. His neatly pressed collar
evoked the awkward lump of bandages
that had once been a man, a man who
had risked his life and his family’s hap-
piness for less money than this bastard
might spend on a month’s luxuries, and
who had sacrificed his life, as it turned
out, for nothing.
That night, disgust sapped my
energies. I had nothing left to give. I gave
up tailing him. I’d gathered enough
information that past week to form a plan
of action, and devoted myself to finding
what small cheer I could in the city’s
hamams. I watched his entourage pull
away from the restaurant and drive into
the night, past the wooden homes of
Beyoglu’s poor, sagging like the backlot
sets of better days, the walls patched with
fragments of beaten tins, or bunged with
refuse, the stove-flues protruding
horizontally into the refuse-choked
streets, belching soot onto the heads of
the miserable passersby. The wretched
buildings leaned toward the street while
McDonald passed, as if to beg an over-
riding question.
The answer wasn’t worth the giving.
I moved away, past the towering piles
of garbage, and consoled myself that
while life in Istanbul is cheap, it’s also
easy to buy.
I finally identified my window of
opportunity.
After following McDonald a week, I
realized he was a disciplined and
paranoid man, who deliberately varied
even the minor details of his daily routine
for security reasons, with one exception
— his visits to his mistress. He was a
married man, and as such, his
opportunities
for romantic
liaisons with
this woman
were few and
disciplined. He
took only one
trusted body-
guard to these
weekly trysts,
to an apartment in Stamboul’s swankest
quarter, where he kept his mistress in
high style. Though he varied the day and
time, he never varied the location or the
bodyguard.
I was set. All I needed was a phone call
from McDonald’s suite, filling in the
blanks. A time and a date, and he would
be dead.
The day arrived at last. A late meeting,
McDonald told his wife, unavoidable,
could go on till early morning. Kiss the
kids for me. Bye.
I smiled, and hoped she really did kiss
the kids for him. Last chance and all. Call
me sentimental. I don’t care.
Then came the inevitable call to
Stephanie. All set for tonight. Ten o’clock.
And wear the fuzzy pink house slippers.
McDonald was one twisted perv.
I suited up. Nine millimeter Heckler
& Koch, concealed under my left arm,
six spare mags. Spring action holster.
Dangerous without practice. However, I
had practice. Lead sap gloves. Skorpion
VZ 61, concealed in the expanded pocket
of my greatcoat, again with spare mags.
Kukri knife in my left boot. Certain
exceptional precautions. I was ready.
At six o’clock, I called for a cab to take
me to the Stamboul quarter where
Stephanie lived. The liaison wasn’t
scheduled until ten, but traffic on the
30
July 2011 • SUDDEN DEATH
“I moved away, past the towering
piles of garbage, and consoled
myself that while life in Istanbul is
cheap, it’s also easy to buy.”
“McDonald leaned
close to me, his
face contorted and
savage. ‘Damn, but
I’m going to make
you pay.‘“